Flash Page 5

  “I warn you, don’t endanger my carefully laid plans by engaging the Flash.” He put the glasses back on. “I don’t need you mucking up the works with some moronic misstep.”

  Nimbus tilted his head, looking like a dog preparing to strike.

  “You calling me stupid?” he growled. “I’m pretty sick of your Little Lord Fauntleroy bullcrap. I’m the most powerful one here. You need me… but I don’t need you.” Nimbus stepped toward Rathaway, who didn’t flinch. “And I don’t like you.”

  Shawna gave Rathaway credit for standing his ground; Nimbus was a monster, and an easy killer.

  Rathaway’s voice stayed calm. He studied the chessboard as he spoke.

  “You have your uses,” he said, “but don’t oversell yourself. We could lose you more easily than anyone else here.” He glanced up with a new sense of casual menace that gave Shawna a little jolt. “Very easily.”

  Nimbus clenched his fists. “I could kill everyone in this room without breaking a sweat. One thought from me and you’d be dead!”

  Rathaway purposefully lifted a different white pawn and moved it.

  “If it requires a thought from you, then we’re all safe.”

  Emitting an animalistic growl, Nimbus started to lose his shape. Limbs twisted. Fingers elongated and curled. He grew green, then bubbled and boiled like smoke. The man was gone, replaced by a writhing cloud of rancid mist. Tendrils snaked across the room toward Rathaway.

  Mardon yelped and dove out of the way.

  Shawna vanished from her spot at the fireplace and reappeared at the window, next to Bivolo. She noticed that Mardon didn’t pretend to come to her defense now that Nimbus was in full mist form. It was every man for himself. That concept had been hammered into her when her lousy boyfriend had left her to be captured by the Flash, even after she had risked her life breaking him out of prison.

  Every man for herself.

  She was fine with that rule.

  Rathaway held out his gloved hands, one of them still holding the crystalline rock. His face tightened with concentration—or maybe it was fear—as the mist swirled toward him.

  “Oh, well.” Bivolo grunted with mild disappointment. “There goes the gig. Back to stick-ups.” He and Mardon stood their ground—neither was going to intervene. They both watched to see what would happen.

  She had never seen Nimbus work, but she knew what he could do. She expected the cloud to sweep over Rathaway, causing him to grasp his throat and choke and crumple to the floor.

  Then the mist stopped.

  Slight vibrations began coming from the floor.

  Rathaway smiled. “It’s no good, Nimbus,” he said. “You’d better pull yourself together while you still can.”

  The mist quivered like the switching of a mad cat’s tail. The shape slowly coalesced into a recognizable human form. Body. Arms. Legs. Head… and finally the face. Fury and confusion etched across his features, Nimbus staggered against Rathaway, and nearly fell.

  “What did you do?” he croaked.

  Rathaway gave a smug purse of his lips and held out his hands, still clad in the science-fiction gloves.

  “With my sonic gauntlets, I can agitate your molecules when you’re in a vapor state. If I were to keep doing it, you would boil away to nothing.” He scanned each of the other three metahumans in the room, wordless, but clearly implying that he could do similar destruction to them all, should it become necessary.

  Shawna laughed. The look on Nimbus’s face was hilarious. From murderous villain to frustrated little boy. Mardon and Bivolo were on their heels, too, unsure what Rathaway was capable of accomplishing. None of them could’ve stood up to Nimbus—their only choice would have been to run. Yet Rathaway had stood and defeated the poisonous monster, without even breaking a sweat.

  “Okay, okay.” Mardon gave a nervous chuckle. “We’re good. We’re friends again. We’re all after the same thing—enough money to enjoy our golden years, and no Flash to wreck them.”

  “Exactly.” Rathaway removed his glasses again and wiped the lenses with the hem of his hoodie. He peered through them before slipping them carefully onto his face. He aimed a conciliatory nod toward the sulking Nimbus.

  “Friends.”

  Outside, only a faint tinge of purple hugged the bottom rim of the clouds. Shawna could put up with these idiots long enough to get rich and buy a house like this one. She had no love for this town. It had beaten her down over the years. So what if she took some of their money? She deserved it, and the powers that be would just print more. Soon she’d be able to go anywhere in the world.

  Anywhere but Central City.

  7

  Barry pressed his eye to the microscope. He hunched over the table, and the pressure of the metal against his eyebrow and cheek comforted him.

  He’d spent many happy hours as a boy, staring through the lens of a microscope at slides with hair or compound eyes or skin cells. This feeling took him back to the safety of his bedroom with his posters and books, so he always felt relaxed in his workspace at the Central City Police Department. It also gave him a purpose, and a sense of accomplishment. Even when Captain Singh would barge in demanding some report that was overdue, Barry stayed calm because this was a place of science. He understood how it worked.

  Barry had always dreamed of being a scientist. He had gone into criminal science purposefully, because he had made a childhood promise that he would solve his mother’s murder and free his father from prison. He would never forget that terrible night as an eleven-year-old, watching strange red and yellow streaks flying around his living room. The uncanny blurs circled his mother, who signaled desperately to young Barry to keep back and stay out of danger, even as she was being murdered by something he couldn’t understand.

  There had been a human face in the midst of the lightning. He had seen the impossible, and from that day forward he had been driven to unravel what was considered unknowable. In fact, Barry eventually solved the murder, but not with his science. It wasn’t until the Flash was created that the truth became known, and the killer had paid for his cowardly act.

  Barry shook his mind off those terrible memories and returned gratefully to the microscope. The predictability of scientific research comforted him, and always had. While other kids fantasized about scoring the winning touchdown in the Super Bowl, or nailing the last-second basket to clinch a championship, Barry wanted to unlock the secrets of the universe.

  “What are you smiling about?”

  Joe West stood in the doorway.

  “Oh, nothing. Just science stuff. You know me.”

  “I do know you.” Joe tapped his wristwatch. “You’re working pretty late. Hugo Larson?”

  “Yeah.” The smile abruptly faded. There was nothing pleasant about this case. “Our suspicions were correct. I found traces of hydrogen cyanide—something that couldn’t have occurred naturally. It must’ve been the Mist who killed him.”

  “I’ve been interviewing Larson’s family and colleagues. The guy was a model citizen. There’s no connection between Larson and Nimbus. Anything weird from the museum scene?”

  “Well, weird is relative, but I turned up a lot of fingerprints, as you’d expect from a public museum. However, most of the broken artifacts only had Dr. Larson’s prints on them. I also identified his prints all over the smashed displays, and all the blood spots we found were his. With those cuts on his hands, and the evidence we found on his body and clothes, it’s hard not to assume that it was Dr. Larson who was the vandal.”

  “Any good ideas why?”

  “No traces of narcotics, or intoxicants of any kind in his body,” Barry replied. “No evidence he was under the influence of any foreign substances, and there was nothing in his home to suggest extortion—or any connection with metahumans.”

  Joe took a deep breath. “Barry, you saw that museum. We’re not talking about a broken coffee mug. That place was torn up, exhibits smashed, artifacts broken. It took time and effort. That was an act
of rage, but nobody I talked to today said Larson was anything other than a genuinely nice man who never even raised his voice. So you know what that means.”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Barry replied soberly. “Roy Bivolo, otherwise known as Prism.” He felt as if he’d just bitten into something bitter.

  “Believe me, I don’t want to go there either,” Joe said. “That would explain the rage, and it’s the third metahuman we’ve got in the mix. As if we don’t have enough trouble already.”

  “But why?” Barry looked back into the microscope, because it was clear and understandable. It never irritated or confounded him. “What’s Bivolo’s angle in forcing poor Dr. Larson to wreck his own museum? And why would Bivolo be working with Nimbus?” He looked up again, unable to escape reality.

  “Money,” Joe replied. “The place wasn’t just trashed—things were missing. We don’t have a complete inventory yet, but there’s valuable stuff they can’t locate. First and foremost, Bivolo is a thief.”

  “Yet he’s always stolen cash,” Barry countered. “Museum goods seem like a lot of trouble for a guy like that. It doesn’t add up.”

  “I have to agree with you, but we’ve got to go with what we’ve got. We’ve rousted some of the most active fences in the city, and let them know what we’re looking for. We’ve sent alerts across the country, asking various agencies to keep an eye out for unusual objects coming onto the black market. Once we get a list of what’s actually missing from the museum, we’ll know better what to look for.” He nodded toward the microscope. “Did you get any leads on that stuff on Larson’s hands?”

  “It looked like iron oxide, but it wasn’t quite right. I sent a sample over to S.T.A.R. Labs for Caitlin to check. I’ll let you know when I get something.” Footsteps at the door heralded the arrival of the solid, dark-haired Captain Singh, wearing his usual harried expression. He carried a file in his hand.

  “I’m not the only one working late, I see.”

  Barry stood up. “Just trying to process the material from the Hugo Larson murder. I should have a report to you tomorrow morning. We think our prime suspects are Kyle Nimbus and Roy Bivolo. It’s the motive we’re not too clear on.”

  “You just supply the facts, Allen. We pay other guys to come up with motives.” Singh offered Joe a surprisingly understanding look. “Hey, Joe, if Kyle Nimbus is around, maybe we should put a unit on your house?”

  Joe laughed. “No, sir, that would just mean risking more lives. Don’t worry, I can handle myself.”

  “I’m sure you can, Detective, but if you need anything, let me know.” Singh waited, as if he wanted to say something else, but then just turned to leave the lab, shooting Barry a look over his shoulder. “First thing in the morning, Allen.”

  “Yes, sir.” Barry watched the captain walk out.

  Joe stared out the window, where the lights of Central City blazed.

  “He’s got a point, Joe,” Barry said. “Both Mardon and Nimbus hate you. Maybe you should leave town for a while.”

  “Not gonna happen.” Joe gave a stern, disapproving look, as welcoming eyes turned hard and challenging. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”

  “Okay, okay. I’m sorry.” Barry held his hands up in surrender.

  Joe’s expression softened. “It’s not me I’m worried about,” he said. “I just don’t want those thugs hurting anyone else. Including you.”

  Barry nodded, and leaned back. “Hey, you know what this means?” he said brightly. “We’ve both got arch-enemies! How many other fathers and sons can share something like that?”

  “I think I’d rather just go to a ball game.”

  A phone chirped and both Barry and Joe reacted.

  “Mine,” Barry said. “Yo, what’s up, Cisco?”

  “Barry, there’s a fire at the riverfront.”

  “Location?”

  “Warehouse near the main depot. They’re requesting hazmat units. There’s chemical storage in danger.”

  “I’m on my way.” Barry looked at Joe, who signaled for him to go.

  * * *

  The industrial riverfront was thick with gas and oil depots, and a small city’s worth of warehouses. The bright lights of storage facilities lit the night, but there was a different glow too. As the Flash came closer he saw the fire, orange and licking the sky. On the other side of a heavy chain-link fence, flames were consuming a large warehouse.

  Several men dressed in coveralls stood at the open gate. They watched the fire, each of them with a phone in his hand. Distant sirens blared from various directions, signaling numerous fire engines en route.

  The Flash streaked through the gate past the workmen. He raced into the burning warehouse. The huge building took up half a normal city block and one end of it was entirely consumed in flames. He roared through the dark space searching for anyone who may have been injured by the fire or succumbed to the smoke. Spotting no one, he went back outside and zipped around the shipping yard, moving between warehouses and equipment shacks, looking for people to move out of harm’s way.

  As he raced back between the burning warehouse and the quay on the river, there was a loud crack. The Flash lost control and slammed into a forklift, careening onto the asphalt. Steam drifted off his chest. He felt numb.

  This wasn’t a glitch.

  He’d been hit by lightning.

  A faint tingle rippled through him, so he quickly rolled to the side just as another bolt of lightning snapped the ground where he’d been lying. He came to his feet and raced away, narrowly avoiding another strike.

  “Come on, Flash,” a familiar voice shouted, “you’re not a fireman. You should stop sticking your nose in. In fact—” Mark Mardon stood high on the prow of a small freighter tied up at the quay. He raised his hands, and bolts of lightning seared through the air and crashed against two smaller warehouses on the far side of the yard. The roofs exploded and instantly flames shot upward. “—let’s give them more to do.”

  “Barry,” Cisco reported in his ear. “We’re reading micro-bursts of low pressure near your location. It’s got to be Weather Wizard.”

  “I can confirm that,” the Flash moaned. He steadied himself on rubbery legs and pulled the weather wand from his belt. He had to get close to use it. He took off for the freighter, up the gangplank, and climbed the steps to the forecastle, reaching the spot where Mardon stood.

  Or had stood. Weather Wizard was gone.

  The Flash looked around frantically, expecting an attack. He quickly searched overhead, recalling that Mardon could alter air pressure and lift himself off the ground. But the Flash stood alone on the deck of the ship. Mardon had impressive powers, but he couldn’t move that fast.

  Could he?

  8

  Fire trucks arrived on the scene, and emergency personnel began setting up inside the fenced-in yard. Heavy sprays of water arced toward the fire. Three men in bulky protective suits, silhouetted in spotlights, manhandled hoses off a yellow hazmat tanker stationed close to the burning warehouse.

  The Flash streaked off the ship through the artificial downpour, heading toward the fire captain. Captain Sandoval perched on the running board of his fire engine, holding the radio transceiver in one hand and a clipboard in the other. A gas mask hung from his neck, and he shouted directions to his men. Brutal heat washed over them all, but no one hesitated to move toward the flames.

  None of them had metahuman abilities.

  “Captain Sandoval,” the Flash shouted over the roar of the trucks’ geysers, “I’m going to create a vortex, and snuff the flames out.”

  “No. I’ve got a hazmat team in the warehouse now foaming it down.” Sandoval grimaced and held up a clipboard with its soaked pages. “This one is bad. We don’t know half of the chemicals in there yet. So don’t run around the fire—we can’t afford any updrafts spreading potential hazardous waste.” He stared hard toward the fiery warehouse. “Who the heck are those guys?”

  Two unidentified figures appeared fro
m around the corner of the warehouse. It was hard to make them out in the glaring mix of night, spotlights, and the haze of water in the air. They appeared to wear no protective clothing, and entered the warehouse where the yellow-suited hazmat crew had gone with the foam hoses. As quickly as they had appeared, they were gone.

  “I’ll get them.” The Flash made sure the weather wand was secured, and took off through the drenching spray. He entered the warehouse and stopped next to the three-man hazmat team, skidding slightly in the mixture of water and foam that spread across the ground.

  Unbearable heat washed over him. To his left, on the distant side of the vast building, sheets of fire undulated along the wall up to the ceiling. Black smoke boiled through the space, but the Flash could see to the far right what appeared to be a huge mound of foam. Fire retardant covered a large stack of chemical containers.

  There was no sign of the two civilians. He started to question one of the hazmat crew when the fireman swung a thick-gloved fist at his chin. Instinctively the Flash dodged, catching a glimpse of sheer anger through the plastic face shield.

  What the hell?

  “Hey, wait a minute!” he said aloud. “I’m here to help.”

  A second yellow-suited man leapt for him, but he just sidestepped, sending the fellow into his partner. The two firemen fell to the ground, and began pounding awkwardly on each other. Protective cowls muffled their angry shouts.

  Prism.

  Something hit the Flash from behind, and slammed him off his feet. A billowing stream enveloped him, and he saw the third hazmat crewman shooting foam in his direction. The powerful jet sent his prone body tumbling across the floor.

  The Flash struggled to his feet in the sludge, slipping and sliding, fighting for traction. He ducked and the stream of froth flew over his back. He raced forward, seizing the nozzle and pulling it out of the fireman’s hands. He quickly looped it around the struggling figure and used it to drag the man out of the choking warehouse. Then he returned to the smoky interior, where he found the other two hazmat crewmen still wrestling.